Hellstrøm’s Dream No. 226

I dreamt I was wearing cozy sheep-skin house-shoes, but I told them a funny story, and they had to laugh and in so doing became a single tiny pink sheep. It had a magic wand, and it told me I had three wishes. Do you want to be shot to death? it asked, hovering in front of me. No, I don’t want to be shot to… Two wishes left, said the sheep. At this point I’m not sure what happened, but the upshot of it was that the sheep had fucked me over again, and I had only one wish left. Clever little ruminant, dammit; or perhaps I was just too drunk.
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So there I was, my feet getting cold, thinking hard about what my last, my one and only best wish, might be. The one thing I cared about above all others. When I finally told it my wish, the sheep laughed. You’re kidding, it said. That’s it? Not world peace, or death to the pope or something? That’s it, I said.
Wallah! it said, waving it’s minuscule wand at me. I was fairly sure it wanted to say voilà, but I made allowances for the fact that good French pronunciation might not be numbered among the assets usual to a magic sheep. Then again, perhaps it was a word utterly sheepish in origin.
I have been blessed by a little pink ruminant, I thought to myself on waking. Anything that comes after that can only be better.
We shall see if my wish comes true.

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Shouldn’t Talk About It

That feeling. That sublime feeling. You talked about it, because you thought you’d found someone you could talk to. Really. Talk. To. It was a mistake: to talk about it. You talked too much. You wrote too much. You broke it across your knee until all the magic was gone. If only you had known to shut the fuck up. Christ, keep your big trap shut, can’t you? No, you can’t.
Actually, you thought you were keeping it alive. You tried to sustain the sublime by evoking it, by conjuring it again and again with your beautiful little words. You danced around it like some fucking shaman. Yeah baby, yeah baby, you’re mine, yeah baby, you’re mine, c’mon, be mine, oh yeah.
How could you be such a fool? How could you believe that anyone you love could be swayed by such nonsense? Desperation led you to it, and you simply weren’t smart enough to see the trap. You flogged the idea across the desert until it was dead, you fool! The most beautiful thing in the world, and you tickled it, tickled it again and again, until it had laughed its last laugh. And that was it.
As if love was something finite, like a bottle of water that you drink until it’s empty. You simply couldn’t believe that. You still can’t… but maybe you’re wrong. Maybe.
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